Broken Blossoms Is Yet Another Complicated Gem in D.W. Griffith’s Legacy
Note: This is the hundred-and-second in a series of historical/critical essays examining the best in film from each year. Essentially, I am watching films from the beginning of cinematic history that interest me and/or hold some critical or cultural impact. My personal, living list of favorites is being created at Mubi, showcasing five films per year. All this being explained, what follows is an examination of my second favorite 1919 film, BROKEN BLOSSOMS, directed by D.W. Griffith.
Last week, I wrote about THE DRAGON PAINTER, a film about Asian people created by Asian people, for all intents and purposes. And importantly, a film about Asian people (mostly) starring Asian people. BROKEN BLOSSOMS, then, is an interesting continuation of the theme of Hollywood interpretation of Asian culture, especially as it comes from D.W. Griffith, the notoriously racist filmmaker of early Hollywood.
BROKEN BLOSSOMS, however, is nowhere near as controversial as THE BIRTH OF A NATION (1915), Griffith’s crowning achievement and American film’s greatest shame. But make no bones about it: BROKEN BLOSSOMS is a reductive display of Asian stereotypes just as much as it’s well-intended, progressive counter-programming to the “Yellow Peril” sweeping the nation in 1919. Its message was even considered liberal…but that was nearly 100 years ago. Nevertheless, the filmic craft around its message is remarkable, as is so often the case with Griffith’s films. He had an almost unerring ability to make audiences believe whatever he wanted them to believe, fulfilling both the humanist and propagandistic (or even straight up evil) potential of cinema.
BROKEN BLOSSOM’s most striking aspect is its set design. The film is positively tiny compared to the scope of Griffith’s most famous films, including my personal favorite, INTOLERANCE (1916). But that’s exactly what makes it so refreshing. This smaller scale doesn’t lack Griffith’s meticulous detail. The dark, moody, stark approximation of London’s Limehouse district seems almost to run parallel to the birth of German Expressionism or, perhaps more accurately, it foretells the Hollywood films influenced by Expressionism, such as those of Josef von Sternberg.
But everyone points out the performances of the film’s two stars, and for good reason. Lillian Gish embodies the “best silent film actress” title in BROKEN BLOSSOMS, an angelic waif constantly pummeled (literally and figuratively) by her abusive father. The famous scene of her pushing up her smile with her fingers is one of the most heartbreaking moments in film, and her writhing in a closet while her father breaks in is genuinely chilling. Richard Barthelmess, on the other hand, is a more complicated subject.
Barthelmess is a white man playing a Chinese man named Cheng Huan. His eyes are pulled back and he bobs around like the “model minority” stereotype of Asians that often trades places with the Yellow Peril throughout American history. But there is a gentleness to the performance, a clear love and chemistry with Gish’s Lucy Burrows, that is difficult to divorce from the experience. The sheer radicalism of implying and even romantic sexual relationship between a white woman and an Asian man is not nothing, even if said Asian man is played by a white man and some quick disclaimers follow these implications.
BROKEN BLOSSOMS’ ultimately tragic ending also runs counter to what Hollywood was and would become, driving home the unique nature of the film even among Griffith’s own work. Like his best films, it is yet another example of his complex legacy. He uses cinema so effectively so as to render despicable concepts palatable or lead well-meaning liberal white people like myself to cover for them. BROKEN BLOSSOMS’ message should not be construed to be as harmful or outright evil as THE BIRTH OF A NATION’s, but nor is it a true rebuke of racism.
But Griffith also uses cinema to advocate for humanism, and nowhere is that clearer than in BROKEN BLOSSOMS. Like most of his films, it is difficult for me to say I “love” BROKEN BLOSSOMS. Although I noted it as my second “favorite” 1919 film above, its place on my list, unlike almost every other film on it (besides Griffith’s other works), is not sheerly based on personal enjoyment. I’m writing about BROKEN BLOSSOMS because of just how insidious and beautiful it is at the same time, because I feel the need to address the incredible achievements of D.W. Griffith while condemning him as well.
BROKEN BLOSSOMS was his last film that resonated with me, and so since I won’t write about him again, it should be noted that Griffith would lose his “King of Hollywood” power going into the 1920s. He made only two talkies, and by the 1931, he was done directing films. He received some work from his mentees and fans in the movie business, but Griffith died in relative obscurity. I would be lying if I said there wasn’t a touch of poetic justice in it. He was a man who rose to great success on, literally, the backs of those he subjugated, who reportedly engaged in incredibly egotistical and predatory behavior, who fell to such lows and was forgotten by those who owe their art form to him. It’s a narrative worthy of a movie.
